Nights of White Starlight and Darkened Sight
by Spurnine
Summary: The End is fast speeding towards them. How do the Millenium's Doktor and the Major cope?


Nights of White Starlight and Darkened Sight

Recent nights, he hadn't been sleeping well.

Not that he ever had. Not with nightmares of his pasts, of his failures.

But this most recent change brought about dreamless sleeps, night sweats, and standing chills when he was awake. The night's stillness, normally so calming for him, were grown oppressive. The lowest ranks of troops were celebrating, but the noise from their night's hellraising sounded canned and forced.

They were celebrating their upcoming victory over the only organiziations that stood any threat against them—Iscariot's elite ruined and scattered, and Hellsing's secret weapons' weaknesses exposed.  
None could have any idea how absolute, how crushing, the Major's victory was to be. They celegrated because they thought they were to rule the new world.

The Doktor felt ill because he knew all too well that the Major had no intention to leave any world behind to rule.

He found he couldn't stay in his laboratory. The silence made every tiny sound echo until he felt as if he might have to claw his own ears off—so he fled.

He ended up walking down a metal stair, head bowed and stomach a hard knot.

His hands were cold and hurt, his fused fingers feeling cold and solid inside his white canvas gloves. he crossed his arms and made fists in his armpits, hunched his spine and continued on, his head lowered.

It was not for himself that he worried.

Recently, the Major had stopped taking food; even his favorite sausages went untouched. Trays of rations went to his office and returned to the kitchen untouched, under the Doktor's watchful eyes. Operas played constantly, soaring heights and crushing crescendoes. The Doktor knew what he was planning, and the realization that all the Major's plans were coming to fruition gripped his heart and gut like a vise.

But not tonight. Tonight, a sad waltz seemed to creep from beneath the door, curl around him and into his ears. He stood rapturous, staring at the closed door.

Two more steps and he was close enough to the door to touch it; he turned his head to the side, and carefully pressed his ear to the timber. O, and the violin's singing peals stretched out and swept over him, a caress like cool silk. His brow knit into a scowl of concentration so deep it looked almost pained. A second later there was a sudden click, and the door swung inward.  
The Major stood in the doorway, one hand on the knob and the other on the jamb, in his shirtsleeves. His sleeves were rolled up his thick forearms, and his hair was tousled, and his shirt buttoned unevenly. To see him in such a sloppy state wrenched the Doktor's heart.

"Herr Doktor," the Major said, and smiled. "Come in…"

With a short noise of acquiescence, he nodded, and stepped over the threshold onto the frayed green carpet. And then, without thinking, he sank to one knee, untucked the Major's shirt, and re-buttoned it properly. The Major stood blinking at his hands for a moment before he caught the Doktor's wrists. Their eyes locked, but neither said anything; he released the taller man's wrists and the Doktor finished buttoning the shirt hastily.

"I was just thinking," the Major said, conversationally.

"I—I want to know why you've stopped eating." The Doktor had blurted the words out before he had time to process what he was saying; afterwards there was nothing he could do but stare in shock as the Major's face registered first surprise, then concern.

He took the Doktor's hand and led him to the open window, through which they had an immaculate view of the valley below; under the flat bright light of the bloated moon, everything had a mercurial tint. The Doktor was beyond romanticizing it and calling it silvery; the distant clouds clotted like shredded wool on the horizon, frosted with a sharp steely windblown edge.

"Sit, please." The Major indicated the dark green armchair, and pulled over the heavy wheeled chair from behind his desk. The Doktor would have protested but for the sudden ironically apologetic glance the Major cast at him.

They sat, and neither spoke for a long while.

"All your plans are coming to their product," the Doktor whispered finally.

"Yes," the Major agreed.

Then neither spoke for a long moment; the Doktor stared down at his gloved hands in his lap, and the Major stared at the Doktor's bowed head, the bone-straight fall of pale gold hair. It seemed for a long moment that a bubble of unsaid words spread and grew bloated in the air before him—the Doktor lifted his head, then dropped it again. The Major opened his mouth, but could think of nothing to say.

Then, with a decisive motion, he reached across, caught the Doktor's hands.

"Everything will be over soon." He said. His voice was surprisingly soft. "Everything. Don't worry; it will all be over."

The Doktor's smile was grim, but satisfied.  
Alone, he returned to his laboratory, but there was nothing more that needed to be done; he washed his hands at one of the large tub-sinks, for what might be the final time. After doing so, he straightened his rows of specimens and stood back, surveying the roomful of gleaming silver and stark white surfaces, the jars with their preserved creatures, before turning the light out and closing the door behind himself.


End file.
